Then all was confusion. In an incredibly short space of time the bodies were cut in pieces and thrown in the river.
I became dizzy; my eyes wandered about; the perspiration fell down from my face in big drops; I could hardly breathe, and I thought I would fall insensible. One scene more like this, and I should have become mad. The image of poor Okandaga was before me, begging me to save her. I retired to my hut, but it felt so hot inside that I could not stay.
When all was over, the crowd dispersed without saying a word; the clamor ceased, and for the rest of the day the village was silent.
In the evening my friend Adouma, uncle of Okandaga, came secretly to my house to tell me how sorry he was that Okandaga had been killed. He said, "Chailly, I was compelled to take part in the dreadful scene. I was obliged to curse Okandaga, but what my mouth said my heart denied. If I had acted otherwise I should have been a dead man before now."
I then spoke to Adouma of the true God, and told him that nothing in the world lasted forever. Men, women, and children died, just as he saw young and old trees die. Often a young tree would die before an old one. Hence young men and young women would frequently die before older ones.
